Avengers- The Roaring 20s
by OutOfTheGalaxy
Summary: This story follows the avengers, together and apart, over their adventures as if they took place in the 20s.
1. Chapter 1

Hey, just want to establish that I don't own any of the characters. I have been taking a bit of creative license with the whole 20s era. To started out, the first few chapters will be about the Avengers before any of them have meet.

The Before

She knew from the moment she entered the speakeasy that all eyes were on her. Of course, that didn't surprise her. She sashayed through the crowd, the fringe on her midnight blue dress swinging along with her. From her faux-crystal headband and feather to her T-bar shoes, she looked absolutely perfect. Perfect was a word synonymous with her being. Not only that but perfection expected from her. Her contract and employers expected nothing less.

"What a doll!" She heard the whispers. To an untrained eye, that's exactly what she was. But her smile was a little to still and big to be real and it didn't quite reach her eyes. Other agents had memories of which they could draw emotion from. But she? She had no happy memories but that worked for her. Each mission executed with a cold and calculated determination. Happiness was weakness.

She stopped at the decadent bar, where the bottles glinted from the chandelier light. She sat down on one of the upholstered, burgundy bar stools. She crossed her legs carefully, not wanting to disturb the hand gun strapped to her upper thigh. The Tommy guns were awfully hard to conceal and too impractical for her taste. She leaned towards the smaller hand guns. She rolled her bracelet around her wrist, a habit of hers when she was impatient. The bracelet wasn't a bracelet at all but a cleverly disguised chord, perfect for choking. It was one of her favorite weapons. She glanced down the side of the bar at the men, looking for her mark. The mob boss who had hired her hadn't been particular about how she got the job done but insisted that it be done quickly and quietly. She swivled around, scanning the room. She stopped when she saw him, a rather old man dressed very dapper and surrounded by a harem of women. He was in a part of the room roped off as the VIP section. She could get in to the VIP section easily, no doubt. But was that necessary? Her employer had instructed her to get in and get out, leaving no trace visible or otherwise. That was perfectly fine with her. She stepped into the path of the waiter who was heading straight towards the thug.

"My, I am so sorry!" She stammered as she clumsily knocked it to the waiter. The poor chap could do little but stare at her with big saucer eyes and mummer words of apology.

"Oh, It was all my fault," She batted her eyelashes and leaned towards him flirtatiously. All the while distracting him from what she was really doing. She dropped a pill into the single wine glass the waiter carried. It fizzed immediately.

"Wh- Wh- What's your name?" He managed to ask but his words were lost. The sea of people in the speakeasy had swallowed her up. He sighed and returned to his job, wondering if he would ever see the red head again.

"Help! " She was almost out the door when she heard the thud accompanied by feminine screams. The job was done. She left the place feeling empty. She use to take extreme pride in planning and executing her job but now… She was tired.

Part 2

He flashed a smile as the women mobbed him. He couldn't help it. They were like moths drawn to his light. He was intelligent, handsome, and smart. But above all else, he was rich. The world was his to carve out.

"Which ones of you would like to go home with me?" He asked with his usual swagger, already knowing the answer. His question was followed by an eruption of squeals from the dolls.

"How about you?" He grinned pointing to one. She nodded her head, her feathers bobbing furiously.

"And you?" He again joked, pointing to the next. She batted her eyes giving him a devilish smile. He could have and would have continued but he was rather rudely interrupted. He was pulled away by a sharp yank to the ear, pulling him toward the door.

"Really?" The woman sighed, exhausted by his behavior. She was his personal assistant, probably the only thing keeping him on the straight and narrow. She was an impeccably dress woman with a natural air that commanded respect and deference.

"I can't help that they're draw to me. Being a playboy, phil-"He started to say.

"-athropist, and genius is both a curse and a blessing," she sighed, having heard that excuse many time before. She was understandably frustrated. She saw his potential, if only he would listen to her. It was like working for an incredibly smart 8 year old. She brushed non-existent lint of her sweater. She stopped and turned,facing him, her pleated skirt whirling with her. She gave him a hard look.

"You need to get your head out of the gutter. Your father gave you this business and I am not going to let you run it in to the ground," She said with a straight face. He raised his head, looking her in the eyes. He tugged his blue vest down and put on his white jacket, before reaching for his top hat.

"You know me! I always have something up my sleeve. Don't you worry your pretty head off about it, doll," He gave her a wolf grin, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He was the master at save himself at the last moment. But somewhere deep down, her disappointment bothered him, but he buried that part of himself deep down where no one could every find it.

"I am THE playboy, philanthropist, genius!" He winked at her as he signaled the other dolls to follow him out. He gave her one last smile before exiting surrounded by a mob of women, a cloud of perfume, and a song of giggles and high pitched chatter.

She watched him leave and sighed. She tried and tried and tried. But it was like he didn't care.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters.

Just a warning but I will be taking a little creative license with the historical element of the story. But of course, I will try to stay as close to historically accurate as I can. This is my first Avengers fanfic, so please be patient. I am still developing the plot lines I plan, but I open to suggestions.

I want to thank all of those of you who are following this story and who wrote reviews. I love, love, love reviews!

Part 3

He was neither tall nor short. His most extraordinary feature was his mind. He was wiry and slight in build. His strength came from the inside, a ball of anger curdling in his stomach. He tried to ignore it but it demanded to be felt. He was ill at ease with himself, always meditating and trying to keep calm. Other men would have killed to have what he had, but he couldn't stand himself.

He stared at the door with resolve, yet his nerves were tangled. God, he hated himself at times. He grabbed his top hat. He wasn't the most fashionable man but he tried. His suit was fashionable, if not a little bland in color. His oxford shoes were very au-current, though.

He exited; his nerves fragile. His eyes darted up and down the street. Walking to work and from work had become an incredibly hard and trying event for him since the incident. He clutched his walking cane with a tight grip. He had always been uncomfortable around people and in groups, before. But now, it was even worse. He only felt at ease in his home and his lab.

He looked up, perturbed by a sudden jolt. There in front of him, as clear as day, he saw a man dip his hand into the purse of some poor woman. No one else seem to notice or they just didn't care. For all his imperfections, he had a soft heart and couldn't stand the idea that the thief would get away.

"Hey, you! Stop!" He yelled drawing the attention of the crowd towards the thief. The man looked up, alarmed. His blue eyes flashed before he jolted off. He, too, sprang forward, intent of catching the man and returning the wallet. The act wasn't entirely coming from the goodness of his heart, a small part of him needed to make up for his cowardliness since the accident. He sprinted after the thief, his stature giving him an advantage as he slipped through the crowd. He followed the thief as he zigged and zagged.

"Watch out, you crazy fool!" A man yelled from his Model T as he darted out in front of the car, still in pursuit of the thief. He waved his hand in apology and continued his hot pursuit.

"Sorry! My apologies, Madame. Excuse me!" He muttered in repeat as he squeezed through the crowd. At several points he almost lost the thief but he was a persistent person. He followed the man down a dark alley. It was a dead end. The man in the dapper coat had disappeared. He looked around but the man wasn't there. Where could he have gone?

"Hello, Chap," He spun when he heard the voice. The thief stepped out of the shadows with a revolver pointed towards him. The man stared at him sweat beading on his forehead, under his blond hair.

"It's nothing personal. I just can't let you go since you've seen my face when I committed a crime. It's either me or you, and of course I am going to chose me," the guy gave him a fox-ish grin. The man advanced forward. As the thief advanced, he stepped back until his back was on the wall.

"It's lights out for you," The thief pressed the revolver to his chest. He closed his eyes trying to constrain and reign in his feelings. He knew what would happen next and it didn't include his death. He clutched his chest and his skin started to tingle. The thief took a step back, confused. The thief blurred in his vision. His vision blurred with green. He tried to take deep breaths but there was no going back. In his last moments of consciousness, he wasn't angry. He was sad.

Part 4

He wondered around the streets, taking his time. He looked up at the tall skyscrapers. His favorite was the one the humans called the Chrysler building. The pamphlet he was holding said the building was Art Deco, whatever that was. He had been wondering around the new city of York. His wonder was highly piqued by each thing he saw. It was new and unique to him, entirely different from his home, Asgard.

When he first came to Earth, he had been ignorant and dismissive of people and their culture. He hadn't had a lot of experience with Earth until he met her. She had taught him about respect and human culture. She was lovely and he thought of her often. He wished that he could visit her but he knew that he couldn't. Visiting her would only hurt them both more. She was human and he was, well, a god. He just couldn't bear the idea of losing her and that was inevitable, especially with all those who envied him and wanted to hurt him. He loved her and wasn't about to let anything happen to her, so he stayed away. It hurt but he thought it best.

He had studied Earth from a far, in his Asgardian chambers through an enchanted pool. He had developed a keen curiosity about Earth and her ways. But looking through the pool wasn't at all like being on Earth, at all. He was filled with a strange sense of wonder and curiosity when it came to all Earth things. It was just so different from Asgard. His cloths were very different. He had stashed away a cache of cloths before he left in case he needed to return again, during his first visit. It was weird how they wore layer after layer and it seemed to have no purpose except decoration. It was different but he had to admit he rather liked how he looked in his pinstriped suit and oxford shoes. The bowler hats were a bit odd but who was he to judge. He did miss his cape, though.

He grinned as he sat on one of the benches in front of Central Park. He watched as these box like things cruised by. He gapped at wonder. He bet she would have been able to explain what these were and how they worked, if she was here. She was a scientist of sorts, one who studied the stars. She seemed to know everything. Stop! Stop! Stop! He had to stop thinking about her. He had to! It was better with both of them.

"Sir? What are those things?" He nudged the man next to him. The man was dress nicely, probably a business man. He crinkled his eyebrows.

"Really? That's a Model T made by Ford" The man got up and gave him a weird look, "You must not get out a lot."

He ignored the man, instead picked up the newspaper the man had left behind. He didn't understand it but he loved it. He inhaled its inky smell and read it veraciously. He couldn't stop, everything was new and enthralling.

He could wonder around forever, but he knew he couldn't. He would always have to return home and now was time. He walked through the park of the center. He stopped finally when he found a small grotto like space that hid him from the curious eyes. The world wasn't ready to know what he was and where he came from.

Suddenly, the sky turned from sunny to cloudy, like the flip of a switch. The sky rumbled and the air was thick. Rain fell down in sheets, soaking the land and anyone caught in the cross fire. A single beam of lightning electrified the sky. It connected to the Earth right at his feet. A rainbow broke through the shield of clouds and sucked him up, like a vortex. It was time he returned home.


	3. Chapter 3

Hey! First, I want to thank everyone who has reviewed and followed my story! Please, please, please review! I am working on plot ideas, so I am open to any suggestions.

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, sadly.

Okay, so when I started on Steve's story, I ran into some problems. So, I will be starting his story after he gets thawed out. I do intend to go back and cover what happened before the thawing in a flashback story. This is the last part of The Before sequence.

Part 5

He climbed the winding stairs, step after step. Foot after Foot, he moved forward in a thoughtless motion. Once, he reached the roof of the skyscraper he stopped. He walked the perimeter, checking for people. But there weren't any, not many people liked heights. He walked straight to the ledge and looked down, watching the tiny Model T cars go by and the specs of people amble along. He let out a low whistle, doing the math in his head about how high off the ground he was. But heights didn't really bother him for he knew he wouldn't fall. Rather, he liked heights, exceedingly. This was why he was the perfect man for the job.

He took off his suit jacket, unbuttoned his vest and set down his brief case. He laid them neatly over the top of the nearest air vent, shedding his gloves and bowler hat along with them. He needed an unrestrained range of movement and his slacks, suspenders, and crisp white long shirt afforded him that. The only thing better was him being stark naked but that was highly frowned upon by S.H.E.I.L.D. since the incident in '18.

He opened up his briefcase. Nestled inside was a folded arrows and bow, made especially for him

"You are one lucky man!" He muttered. He was excited by the prospect of trying his new arrows out. S.H.E.I.L.D. always provided the best for their best agent. He didn't like killing but none the less, he liked making the world a better place. He owed it to all the people he had wronged. S.H.E.I.L.D. needed someone to take down national and international threats, so they sent him.

He closed his eyes, thinking back to when he was looking over the case file at the S.H.E.I.L.D. base. The face of Viktor Ivankov, a Russian mobster, popped into his mind. S.H.E.I.L.D. had caught wind that he was planning to sell secrets, American secrets, to the highest bidder. Viktor was an untrusting fellow, much to S.H.E.I.L.D.'s delight. He and only he knew the secrets, so you take him out and the exposed secrets die with him. But as there always is, there was one problem. Viktor hired a gang of thugs to protect him at all times. This made it hard for agents to exterminate him. But he was no normal agent; he was what you would call an aerial expert. The only thing else needed was a distraction.

Out of the corner of his vision he saw the car. It had to be Viktor on his way to sell his secrets. He could spot it because it was nicer, polished and shining. It fit Viktor's M.O. for decadency. He strung his bow, the tip of the arrow following the car, as he perched on the edge of the roof. Now, he just had to wait for the distraction.

Out of nowhere, a dinky, brown Model T seemed to appear. With a swerve it crashed into Viktor's car, making a big commotion. The driver slid out and dashed in the opposite direction, hiding in the crowd of people. The back of Viktor's car was totaled. A few thugs managed to crawl out and immediately sprung forward to help their boss out of the car. Viktor stumbled, even with his thug's help. A red streak dribbled across his forehead from an unseemly gash.

He raised his bow, finding Viktor in his crosshairs. He took in a deep breath. As he exhaled, he let the arrow fly. The arrow went cleanly through Viktor's eye, killing his immediately. He crumpled to the ground, his buffoons gawking at him.

He shoved his foldable bow back into his brief case and grabbed his outerwear as he dashed for the stairs. He was gone before the thugs were any the wiser.

Part 6

He sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Waking up was a sad event for him. Each night he dreamed of her and of the time they could have had together. He started his morning ritual, shoving aside his blankets. He walked straight to the front door of his apartment. He opened the door and gently lifted up the newspaper, closing the door as he went back inside. He scanned the top of the front page. He read the date aloud. He had known, even before reading the newspaper but some small part of him held out hope that it wasn't true.

Learning that it wasn't the 1770s and that they weren't at war with the British had been brutal. The 144 or so years on ice had robbed him of friends, family, and a normal life. A day didn't go past without him thinking of her. Even though S.H.E.I.L.D. pushed him to explore, he was hesitant. It was no longer the world he knew. Everything was twisted and warped with new things replacing the old he was familiar with. He almost had a heart attack the first time he saw women's clothing. In his time, it was social suicide for a woman to show her ankles but now dresses were knee length!

He no longer gawked but it was hard for him not to be wistful for the old days. For someone who had missed out on 144 years of progress, S.H.E.I.L.D. had to admit that he was adapting at a good rate. But him? No, he just felt lost.

He got ready for the day. He took meticulous care in dressing. He wanted to get it right. He was already the outsider and didn't want to be that even more so. He left his apartment, forcing himself to be a part of the outside world. He knew that S.H.E.I.L.D. hadn't un-thawed him out of the genuine kindness of their hearts but because they needed him. He had once been America's hero and he knew they wanted him to be that hero again. Part of him really like that idea. He still felt pride and faith in his country, for despite everything they had come far.

He headed first to the Cinema. Of all the new things he in countered, this was the one he took to the fastest. He loved the idea of movies. He watched enrapt as the action flashed across the screen. The idea was just so novel to him. He didn't understand quite how they were made, but he loved it none the less. He tapped his shoes to the beat of the tune the pianist played to accompany the film.

He left with a feeling of childish joy. He watched, silently, as the cars passed by. He had yet to ride in one. A S.H.E.I.L.D. operative was supposed to teach him how to drive sometime next week, but he wasn't too keen to get in the steel box of doom. But he couldn't let his fears hold him back. That wasn't who he was. American needed a hero and he was determined to be that man, again.


	4. Chapter 4

I own none of these characters, sadly.

I love the reviews! I am open to any ideas and love feed back.

I hope you enjoy and please review!

**Natasha**

_Click_

Natasha flicked open her compact mirror, applying the dark red lipstick. She casually used it to check out her surroundings, never one to let things slip from her notice. She was a little on edge, as she always was on a meet and greet. She had a meeting with a perspective client. She never knew exactly what to expect with her clients, who ranged from angry wife to completely deranged psychos. Natasha had lived longer than most assassins, a testament to her skill and vigilance.

She absent-mindedly tapped her Cuban heels to the sound of the jazz band at the Parisian café she was at. She looked around and pulled down her red feathered cloche hat, uncomfortable. Her client-to-be was late. Natasha was the best of the best and it wounded her when she was disrespected. She excused her pride in sight of everything else she's had to give up. If he didn't show up in the next few minutes, she would leave. It's not like she didn't have an abundance of people who desired her services. Plus, she had the KGB to think about. She wasn't overly eager to have run in with some of her ex-associates.

She tapped her fingers on the table, giving anybody who looked her way a little too long her patent bitch face. She was done. If he wasn't going to show, then she might as well leave. She reached over and slipped on her fur coat. She reached down and grabbed her purse, frustrated for her lost time.

**Clint**

Clint leaned over the edge of the roof, binoculars in his hands. He stared down at a small café across the street rather intently. He spared a brief look down at the file next to him. It was typed up with a singular black and white photo. The photo itself was useless, being a complete blur of hair and weapons. Though he supposed that description described the women he was tracking very well. _Natasha Romanoff_. Out of all the people he had been sent after, her file was unsurprisingly sparse, considering what he had heard about her. He looked forward to the challenge that she provided.

Clint had reached out to some of his underground connections and set up a meeting with the nefarious Black Widow. She had chosen the meeting spot but Clint had never really intended on actually meeting her at the café. He wasn't one for casual meeting, plus he had a plan. He was going to follow her after she realized she had been stood up. He hoped that she would lead him to her safe house so he could take care of her quietly and collect any data or weapons she had. S.H.E.I.L.D. would really appreciate any extra information The Widow could 'give' them. Clint had taken care of a wide range of assassins, dangerous criminals and cases that S.H.E.I.L.D. had provided him with. One women wouldn't be a problem, not for him.

He shifted his attention back to the women he had been sent to take care of. She was getting frustrated, just as he had expected she would be. He shrugged of his suit jacket and took of his bowler hat, tucking them behind the building's air vent. He slipped off his suspenders, ready for a potential struggle when he took care of The Widow. He opened his leather briefcase, pulling out his compoundable bow. He slipped the file back into the briefcase and put the briefcase with his stuff.

He peered over the edge of the building, just in time to see Romanoff walk down the street. He took a deep breath, ready for pursuit. He took a few steps before running forward, leaping from one buildings to the next, landing nimbly. He continued to follow her, jumping from roof to roof, dodging behind chimneys and sliding down tiles.

**Natasha**

Natasha hastened her steps. Something was off, she could feel it in her gut. She always listened to her gut, more so than she would listen to anyone else. And right now? Her gut was telling her something was off. Clients usually didn't stand her up. If they were desperate enough to come to her, they weren't going to back out because they were scared.

She subtly shifted her position and 'accidentally' bumped into a man. She twisted, feigning an apology to the man, all the while taking in her surroundings. She wanted to be discrete about checking out her situation. She notice something weird on the roof top. Yep. She was being followed. The corner of Natasha's mouth turned up. Now, this was more like it! She couldn't help but have a rush of excitement. She would never be able to give up her life, it fueled who she was. The chase was on.

She slipped off her large, furry mink coat and tossed it on the back of a bench as she passed. She ducked slipping in front of an unusually tall man, letting him unknowingly shield her from her purser. She took a quick left and weaved her way through the crowd. She glanced back at the sky line, a grin spreading across her face.

**Clint**

Clint rubbed his forehead as it began to glisten with sweat. He should have taken more precautions. He had let his pride get in this way and he had almost lost her. _Almost._ He wasn't about to make the same mistake again. He had a job to do and he wasn't going to let anything get in his way. S.H.E.I.D. had given him a second chance and Clint wasn't going disappoint them or Coulson.

Clint looked down the side of the build he was perched on. He had never been afraid of heights. He wasn't named Hawkeye for nothing. He saw her walk down the alley behind the building, one over. He took a running jump and flew from one building to the next, landing in a roll. He loved the feeling as he almost flew through the sky, like his namesake.

He walking to the opposite side of the building. He cautiously climbed on to the fire escape, making his way down, slowly. He jumped off the fire escape, landing in a crouch. As he rose, he snapped open his compound bow. Clint surveyed his surroundings. He could have sworn that he saw her go down this ally. He was so distracted by his supposed error that he didn't notice a figure approach from the shadows.

**Natasha**

Natasha crouched behind a large trash bin, scrunching up her nose at the smell and cringing at the thought of the nasty stuff touching her new dress. She sighed, sometimes she really had to make the ultimate sacrifice for her job. After hearing a soft thud, she peaked out from behind the trash bin, seeing a man in front of her. This must be her purser. Poor kid, he had no idea what was about to hit him.

Natasha slunk out from behind the shadows. She reached and grabbed the knife concealed in the garter of her tights. She lunged forward and flung the knife with deadly precision. The knife found its mark, snapping the man's bow, causing him to drop it. He was able to only turn slightly before she was on him. She wasn't one for pauses or long villainous explanations.

Whoever he was, he was ready for her. She grabbed onto his back, wrapping her arm around his neck. He reeled, backing up and smacking into the wall of the building, repetitively. She groaned as she slide off. He turned and flung his fist towards her face. He was quick but she was quicker. She grabbed his fist before it could make contact. She twisted his wrist away and slammed her fist into his cheek. She wasn't about to let some guy get the best of her. But, he wasn't quite done with her either. He grabbed her hand before she could jerk it away from him and twisted her away, using momentum to throw her against the opposite wall. She hit the wall and groaned loudly as she slid down, landing on several trash bags. She rested there uncomfortably, something sharp poking into her side. She played possum, waiting for him to come over to her. The man crouched over her. Her eyes popped open and she head bumped him. He stumbled back and landed on his butt. It only took a split second before he lunged at her, a knife materializing in his hand. She jumped forward to meet him. Both wrestled to get the better of the other on the dirty alley street. The man used his strength to pin her down, his forearm pressed to her neck and the other hand with the knife draw back, ready to strike. She gasped as he pressed down on her throat, her own hands wrapped around his throat. She squeezed, harder and harder, hoping that he passed out before she did. The edges of her vision started to blur. No….. No. This wasn't how the Natasha wanted to go.

**Clint**

Clint took several deep breaths. He maintained his pose over her, muscle still tense. He swayed a little, staring down at her face, blood trickling down her temple. He should just finish her off now. This was his opportunity….

But for some reason, he couldn't do it. His muscles locked up and refused to move. He stepped back, slumping. _God, what are Coulson and Fury going to say?_ Clint saved that rather unpleasant thought for a later date, focusing on the matter in hand. Why couldn't he kill her? He never had this problem before. But something about her just made her stop. He couldn't put a finger on it. He couldn't go back now, the decision had been made.

He bent forward scooping her up, her head lolling to the side. She was incredibly light and slight. He was fascinated at how someone so small could be so deadly. He carried her back to the main street, away from the alley. Clint somehow managed to hail a cab, with The Widow still in his arms. He slide into the back seat and leaning The Widow against the side of the other door. The driver looked back at Clint, one eye brow raised and his bushy mustache twitching.

"She's my girl. She tripped and fell," Clint shrugged, lying blatantly. He faked smiled at The Widow, "She's so clumsy, but she's a real doll!" He gave the directions to the driver, who accepted Clint's flimsy lie. Clint subtly check the pulse of The Widow's wrist, relieved when he felt it. Clint tipped the driver exorbitantly, as a bribe of sorts, after the driver pulled up to Clint's rather run down hotel. Clint nodded to the driver and grabbed The Widow after he stepped out of the cab. He bridle carried her up to his room. The scene they created received a few looks but the hotel was on the seedier side of Paris and had seen some pretty nefarious stuff. Plus, Clint's dazzling smile helped.

Once in his room, he laid her down on his bed. Her skirt, splayed out all around her and her fashionable bob was now messed up, beyond repair. He looked down at the resting figure in front of him, his hands resting on his waist. _God, Coulson and Fury were going to kill him_.


End file.
